


Disappear

by Leif Writes (FrankensteinsMomster)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Anxiety, Autistic Malcolm Bright, Depression, Flashbacks, Gen, Short One Shot, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22683148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankensteinsMomster/pseuds/Leif%20Writes
Summary: He laid in bed wishing he could disappear. Not die, not kill himself. He didn’t want his family to hurt anymore than they already had. He just wanted to dissipate into nothingness.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Disappear

There were days when he couldn’t pretend, couldn’t mask, couldn’t pass for a semi-functioning human being. He was so full of pain and hurt and exhaustion. The hollow feeling in his chest felt like a black hole sucking him deeper into the nothingness. He couldn’t speak. The words felt like too much. Like not enough. How could he possibly explain what he was feeling, what he was ever feeling, to anyone?

After his father was arrested he stopped speaking. The days had melted into each other. He barely ate, barely drank, barely slept. One doctor after another, one therapist after another, one medication after another. 

He laid in bed wishing he could disappear. Not die, not kill himself. He didn’t want his family to hurt anymore than they already had. He just wanted to dissipate into nothingness. To slowly dissolve into his sheets until there was nothing left, not even the briefest memory of him. He just wanted to rest. Just wanted to get rid of the constant weight on his chest, on his heart. It was too much. 

One pill, two pills. He lost count of the medications he tried. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to feel better. He wanted nothing. He felt nothing. He felt too much. It was too loud. Too busy. Too bright. The flash of bulbs as they walked the steps to their house, his mother’s hand on his arm pulling him along. He tripped over his feet and fell to his knees and the cameras flashed. He screamed and pulled his knees up to his ears and pulled on his hair and it was too much he couldn’t do this anymore. His mother tried picking him up but she was already holding Ainsley and everybody was watching. Everybody was always watching, always judging, always screaming. 

“Malcolm, stand up, you’re embarrassing me,” he could hear her words but couldn’t make himself care. He was an embarrassment, a failure. He wished she would just leave him out there and shut the door. The cameras would flash and flash and flash until there was nothing left but an afterimage. That’s all he was. An afterimage. A ghost of a boy. A memory of a memory of what he used to be. He doesn’t remember being picked up but there he is in his room, still curled into a ball. His throat raw from screaming. 

Memories of the early days after the arrest played in his mind over and over and over and over and he couldn’t stop. He could take a handful of Xanax and hope for the best. Or get completely wasted and deal with the side effects of alcohol plus an array of medication. But those took too much effort. Too much time when all he wanted to do was lay in his bed or on the floor and melt and dissolve and disappear and stop hurting and stop existing.


End file.
